


The A-Team

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [55]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9167887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: Porthos has taken his first holiday in years to spend some time with his newly acquired sister. This leaves Athos and Aramis to fend for themselves for once. They manage rather well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



New Year’s Eve has come and gone, and life has returned to something vaguely resembling normal. At least in some aspects. In others, not so much. Thus, Aramis is feeling … restless. Yes, that’s pretty much what it amounts to. No matter where he goes or whom he talks to, he can’t seem to settle down and relax.

Currently he’s in the shop, although business is notoriously slow in January. But it’s the perfect time to catch up on work for the regulars - alterations and customizations, and the unavoidable torn zippers. It’s harmless work, apart from the zippers maybe, nothing that would require special attention; so it’s no problem if Aramis’ mind starts to wander. He briefly looks up from his sewing machine when Constance plugs in the fairy lights still adorning their window in the afternoon, grins to himself when d’Artagnan starts whistling in the little kitchen in the back, presumably making coffee.

Constance and d’Artagnan have been nothing but adorable these past few weeks, all blushy and soft around each other, and Aramis is glad that their relationship is finally kicking off. Because it’s been a week since Porthos set off to spend time with Samara; it will be another week until he returns, and Aramis needs all the freaking distractions. ALL OF THEM. He’s missing Porthos so much that it scares him, if only because the depth of his co-dependency has finally been revealed, and he can’t see the bottom. They’ve never been apart for such a stretch of time since they moved in together, have never spent more than a night without the other. This sudden separation is making Aramis feel unbalanced and weird, and extremely clingy.

Because Athos is still with him, naturally. It’s not as if Aramis was home alone. He would probably have shrivelled into a ball of loneliness by now if that was the case. He has Athos, he has the kittens - he has everyone, really, apart from Porthos. So every night Aramis does his very best _not_ to treat Athos like his own personal cuddle cushion, he doesn’t attach himself to Athos’ hip as soon as he gets home, doesn’t snuggle the life out of him at every given opportunity.

But, by God, he wants to.

And not just because Porthos is away. Ever since Christmas Athos has been extremely snuggle-worthy. His hair has grown out a little, he keeps wearing the woodsy green cardigan Aramis bought him, and for some strange reason his cheeks are _always_ ruddy nowadays. It’s extremely appealing. Aramis keeps wanting to rub their faces together. He wants to nuzzle and and kiss and possibly even lick Athos.

But he can’t.

Because it’s not Athos’ fault that Porthos is away, nor is he to blame for the cold weather front making itself comfortable in their region, spreading ice and snow and instilling Aramis with an insatiable desire for closeness and all things warm. If he could bring the kittens with him to the shop, he would. They’re all of them excellent heaters, especially if stuffed into the pullover you’re currently wearing.

Aramis sighs and a steaming mug appears in his line of vision. “Want some? It’s hot chocolate mocha.”

D’Artagnan looks immensely pleased with himself when Aramis beams at him and immediately makes greedy grabby hands for the mug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” D’Artagnan looks hesitant for a moment, then he joins Aramis in his little nook. He perches on the long work table Aramis uses for storing fabric, cradling his own mug to his chest, and clears his throat. “So, how are you doing?”

For a moment Aramis is distracted by the fact that d’Artagnan is wearing a very soft white stretchy top, and has to blink a few times. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the current lack of Porthos in your life,” d’Artagnan clarifies. “You seem twitchy. Is Athos not picking up the slack?”

Behind her sketching table Constance shows signs of gleeful eavesdropping. Aramis glares at her.

“You better take care not to spill any of your hot chocolate mocha on Mrs Beachum’s favourite dress,” she tells him with a sweet little smile that does absolutely nothing to veil the threat in her voice. Neither does the excessive fluttering of lashes.

So Aramis turns around on his swivel chair, away from that favourite dress, and faces d’Artagnan head-on. “It’s not Athos’ job to pick up the slack.”

D’Artagnan scrunches up his nose. “Yes, it is. He’s your boyfriend just as much as Porthos is.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Aramis says. “It’s just that we - that we’ve never - that he needs his space!”

“Oh, is he painting something?” Constance asks. After careful consideration she bends over her current sketch to add lace lining to the bottom of the skirt she’s come up with.

Aramis blinks. These two know far too much already. “No, he’s not.”

Constance and d’Artagnan share a glance.

Aramis looks up at the ceiling. “What.”

“Nothing,” d’Artagnan says with a confused lilt to his voice. “It’s just that he’s always so very ready to drape himself all over you that it’s kind of weird of him to stop now of all times.”

Aramis keeps staring up at the ceiling with a blank stare. “He is?”

Constance scoffs. “You’re kidding, right?”

Aramis directs his gaze back down and into his mug. “Huh.”

Now that he thinks about it, Athos hasn’t sat in his armchair once since Porthos left. He’s always on the couch with Aramis in the evenings, quietly reading or watching a movie with him, more often than not sitting so very close that Aramis had to bite his lip to keep himself from crawling into his lap. He keeps greeting Aramis by the door when he gets home, helps him out of his jacket and scarf, and he always prepares him a thermos of coffee in the morning nowadays. Always.

Aramis has something of a belated epiphany at this point.

Just because people keep telling him that Athos is a recluse who doesn’t like to be touched on a regular basis doesn’t mean they’re right. Or even if they were - they’re not the ones in a relationship with Athos. They’re not supposed to touch him. They don’t get to see Athos’ soft smile after his first coffee in the morning. He doesn’t order dinner for them because he’s no good at cooking himself, and he certainly doesn’t brush kisses to their cheek and strokes his fingers through their hair and offers to go to bed shirtless to make up for the glaring lack of Porthos in their life.

Aramis bites his lip. He’s been a bit of a ninny, hasn’t he. That cold front must have frozen his brain.


	2. Chapter 2

When Aramis gets home that evening Athos is not greeting him at the door. Instead Tom streaks around his ankles while Aramis shimmies out of his brand new winter coat (a Christmas gift from Athos) and takes off the matching scarf and hat (presents from Charon). Getting rid of his boots takes a moment, as always, and Aramis makes a silent vow to himself to get a new pair before these give up the ghost and leave him with wet feet in addition to the delightful game of patience that is untangling the laces and various straps that hold them together. He really must stop buying things just because they look nice. Porthos starts to claw at his hair whenever he has to witness Aramis put them on. (The last time they went out together he actually sent Aramis into the hallway with a ten minute head start to get dressed.)

When Aramis is finally free to round the corner to the living room, Athos is on the couch with a glass of wine, reading. He’s received about a million books for Christmas - as per his request - and has built little towers and strongholds of them in the shelves, to help him remember the ones he hasn’t read yet. A few of them have been assimilated into the line-up already, yet somehow he always manages to be reading an old Pratchett when Aramis gets home. He looks up when Aramis joins him on the couch, and his face pulls into a smile, sweet and fond, the stretch of his cheeks bordering on what Porthos likes to call a Happy Pumpkin.

He keeps himself very still when Aramis leans in for a kiss, and Aramis, emboldened by his earlier epiphany, allows himself to linger. Athos’ lips are warm and taste faintly of wine, and Aramis sighs when he eventually straightens, chases the aftertaste with his tongue.

Athos closes his book. “Welcome home.”

The next thing Aramis knows is that he’s in Athos’ lap, being held rather tightly. “I missed you,” Athos sighs into his hair, and Aramis blinks at Howard, who’s lying on the backrest of the sofa behind Athos’ head. Howard blinks back, clearly just as befuddled as Aramis himself.

But then Athos lets out a deep, heartfelt breath and rubs his cheek against Aramis’. “Do you want some wine? I opened one of the sweeter bottles.”

He doesn’t sound _drunk_ , per se, just a little warmer than usual, without even the hint of a drawl in his voice. Aramis smiles. “I would love that, yes. Let me get a glass.”

“No, nono, you can just use mine,” Athos says quickly, holding on to Aramis’ elbow before he can even think about moving away. “Stay. This is nice.”

His words cause Aramis to linger yet again. Instead of leaning forward to get the offered glass off the table he gazes at Athos, quite aware of the heat in his cheeks, the comfortable warmth of Athos’ lap. Athos gazes back at him, that sweet smile from earlier still evident in his eyes. He’s wearing jeans and one of Porthos’ sweaters, his hair is a fluffy mess, endlessly touchable.

Aramis is dangerously close to meeping.

And then Athos leans in and kisses him again, and Aramis’ self-control crumbles. Drunk Athos is always beyond adorable, but Aramis has never been alone with him, could never be this greedy and selfish and reap the benefits all by himself. Porthos is going to be so _jealous_.

A noise of bliss escapes his lips, and Athos hums into their kiss, pulls Aramis a little deeper into his lap. The sudden urge to strip and enjoy this the way it should be enjoyed rears its head. Athos might actually let him, given his state of inebriation. Instead Aramis merely sighs, brushes a collection of kisses to Athos’ cheek, and moves off his lap to sit directly beside him and leech his warmth while he’s at it.

Athos puts his arm around Aramis’ shoulders and proceeds to nuzzle Aramis’ cheek. “Did you have a nice day at work?”

“Yes,” Aramis says, cuddling into him, trying to use the force to get at the bottle of wine on the table. “Constance and d’Artagnan were both very lovely.”

Without their gentle wake-up call this reception would probably have melted his brain, Aramis realizes.

Since the force is unwilling to help him out he leans forward with a little grunt, fills up Athos’ glass, and collapses back into the couch and Athos’ waiting arm. “And how are you? Did your books keep you company?”

“I actually had to leave the house,” Athos replies, sounding put-out. “They needed a pair of extra hands at the orphanage. I really must advertise for another teacher for the children soon. Porthos being on holiday should not throw us all into such disarray.”

Aramis pouts and nods, although he is of the firm opinion that Porthos’ absence will always result in mild mayhem, extra teacher or not. It’s only right, and as it should be.

“I got to hold the baby,” Athos adds, a touch of pride in his voice. “Wanna see?”

Aramis makes bubbles of affirmation in his wine, and Athos fishes out his phone, shows Aramis the pictures of him holding little Jasmine.

“I sent this one to Porthos,” he informs Aramis, pointing, a hint of glee in his voice. “He called me a highway robber.” He slumps in his seat. “God, I miss him.”

“I miss him, too,” Aramis sighs, finishing his glass of wine so he can properly pet Athos’ hair.

“I’m so glad I’ve got you,” Athos mumbles, turning into Aramis’ body and pushing his face against his neck. “I don’t think I would survive completely separate holidays at this point.”

“Porthos is stronger than both of us,” Aramis agrees gloomily. “It’s just not fair.”

“I think this might be his revenge for me going off to Italy with Ninon so very often,” Athos grumbles, breathing against the hollow of Aramis’ throat. “He could have _said_ that he wanted to go with us.”

At this Aramis actually has to chuckle. “I don’t think he had any idea of revenge when he set out. He just wanted to get to know Samara and her family a little better.”

Athos pulls back his head to pout at him. “He could have invited them here!”

Aramis narrows his eyes at the basically empty bottle on the table. He should probably get some food into Athos. Yes. Food. Brilliant idea.

Porthos would be proud of him.


	3. Chapter 3

Aramis orders Chinese; in part because he loves getting all the different side dishes, but also because it won’t remind him of Porthos’ cooking. They had potato wedges the other day, and Aramis nearly started to cry at the table when it turned out there was no sour cream. So. Chinese.

Athos continues to snuggle him while they wait for the delivery, and gets out a bottle of rice wine once it has arrived. Aramis doesn’t stop him. For one Athos is an adult and well-able to handle his own alcohol intake when his brother isn’t around, and then Aramis really likes drinking the stuff. It’s _warm_. It won’t hurt them if they get a little drunk. It’s the weekend after all.

So they get drunk. Not extremely so, because, well, Athos is an adult who can handle his own alcohol intake when his brother isn’t around, and Aramis gets tipsy so very quickly that there’s no need for extreme measures with him.

He’s still able to take a shower after dinner without falling over, and wraps himself in the warm bathrobe Athos draped over the wall heater for him with a luxurious sigh of pleasure once he’s finished. Athos is the best. He’s going to cuddle him _so hard_ tonight.

Aramis nods to himself and brushes his teeth, then he leaves the bathroom and sets off down the hallway, taking care not to trip over the astounding number of kittens barring his way.

“You guys suck,” he tells them as they meow at him, apparently peeved that he hasn’t turned into Porthos in the bathroom. They seem to miss him almost as much as Athos and Aramis do. As far as Aramis is concerned that’s still no reason to trip him.

He makes it into the bedroom and quickly closes the door behind himself before the furballs can follow him in. It takes him a second to register that Athos is already in bed - not reading, but looking at him, expression soft and inviting in the low light from the bedside lamp.

Aramis gulps.

“Are you finished in the bathroom?” Athos asks, and Aramis nods, tingly and wide-eyed for no apparent reason. It’s not as if Athos was _naked_. He’s perfectly dressed, wearing his usual pyjamas and even a pair of felt slippers. Still Aramis goes stock-still when Athos gets out of bed, watches him approach with his heartbeat in his throat, and gets a kiss on the mouth for his troubles.

“I’ll be right back,” Athos murmurs, stroking his hand over Aramis’ bathrobe-clad back. “You should get into bed so you don’t get cold.” With that he’s out of the room, door clicking shut behind him, and Aramis all but dives into bed and under the covers, belatedly realizing that he should have taken the robe off first. He nearly strangles himself with it and then dumps it on the floor next to the bed, pulls the blanket over his head.

God. What the hell is wrong with him. He acts as if he’s a virgin on his first date instead of home alone with his boyfriend of almost three years.

Well, alright, Athos isn’t his boyfriend of almost three years. Athos is his friend of almost three years. Aramis scrunches up his nose and tries to calculate when that changed and turned into romance and comes up blank. It’s not that he can’t remember their first kiss, because how could he ever forget that particular source of joy and embarrassment, but that isn’t the same. Not even close.

Athos returns at that point, slips into bed with him and under the covers, pulls him into his arms, and sighs.

Aramis looks up at him. “Since when are we boyfriends?”

Athos blinks at him, mildly disturbed. “How drunk are you? How could you not remember all the kissing of the last few months? Sure, you’ve been weirdly distant since Porthos went away, but I figured that was just you being considerate of my boundaries - I’d never imagined that you’d actually _forgotten_ that I’m your boyfriend, too.”

Aramis makes an affronted muppet-face. “I _mean_ how long has it been since we’ve started considering each other in a romantic way!” He squints at Athos. “How drunk are _you_?”

“Oh.” Athos clears his throat. “Very, apparently.” He smiles happily. “And I don’t know. I pretty much liked you right away. Remember how I slept with you on the couch that one night? I mean, I didn’t want to kiss you back then, but I guess it was the first step?”

Aramis experiences a full body blush. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Athos breathes, pulls Aramis a little closer and rolls half on top of him. “You were just too endearing.”

“I was?” Aramis is smiling in a borderline dopey way now, and he wraps his arms around Athos and holds him tight, drops a kiss on his head. He still doesn’t know when he started to fall in love with Athos, but maybe it was that evening for him as well. Maybe all it took was Athos showing him kindness - Athos being there for him when he needed him to.

Aramis has no idea if that makes him easy, or incredibly smart.

Athos distracts him from that question by brushing a kiss to his throat, and then another one, and another one, until Aramis’ skin tingles and he could draw the shape of Athos’ mouth with his eyes closed. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” Athos whispers, his breath warm on Aramis’ over-sensitive skin. “Now that you’re finally letting me.”

The words probably shouldn’t make Aramis feel as hot as they do. “What are you talking about. I’m always letting you.”

“The past week you didn’t,” Athos murmurs, stroking his hand over Aramis’ chest, where his left nipple takes immediate interest. “You were very cruel.”

“I wasn’t trying to be!” Aramis squeaks, unable to move or stop Athos’ wandering hand. “I just thought you wouldn’t want me to climb all over you!”

“Well, you were wrong,” Athos informs him. “I like when you do that.”

Aramis thinks he might faint. Instead he maneuvers himself lower, so he’s on eye-level with Athos, and takes a very deep breath. “I’d really like you to … touch me some more, if you don’t mind.”

Athos smiles at him. “Should I take my top off?”

Aramis bites his bottom lip. “‘s.”

“Yes?”

“Mh-hm.”

“Alright.” Athos cranes his neck and brushes a soft kiss to Aramis’ lips. “Don’t you just hate it when Porthos is right about talking about stuff?”

Aramis giggles. “Yeah, it’s awful.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Aramis wakes up the next morning it’s still mostly dark outside. The sliver of sky visible between the curtains is ominous and and grey, threatening the possibility of more snow. He sighs and closes his eyes, turns into Athos and pulls the comforter a little higher across both their shoulders.

His body is warm, still remembers the way Athos touched him last night, gentle and almost reverent, without even a hint of reluctance. It makes him blush, to think how he made himself go without the comfort of Athos’ caresses for the past week, how nonsensical his act of withdrawn timidness really was. Apparently there’s such a thing as being _too_ considerate.

Thank goodness Athos knows him better than that. Which is a relief, really: that Aramis doesn’t have to hold back with him - that Athos’ comfort zone encompasses him so completely. He was so very sweet last night, kissed and petted Aramis until he felt liquid with pleasure, entirely safe.

Now Athos appears to be still deeply asleep, his breathing even and regular, accompanied by the odd little snore. Aramis makes a happy noise and thanks the Lord that his mild drinking excess of the previous night hasn’t resulted in even the lightest headache. He feels great, actually, relaxed and rested, and ready for another day home alone with Athos.

Porthos being away doesn’t feel so bad now that his need for physical intimacy has been met. Of course Aramis still misses him, but it doesn’t feel quite so urgent anymore.

He opens his eyes to look at Athos, at the way his hair falls into his eyes and his face looks so different in sleep - so young and mild that Aramis barely recognizes him. Because Athos is nothing if not expressive, needs only his eyes and a quirk of his lips to convey what he’s feeling. Sleep takes that away, leaves an almost blank canvass for Aramis to look at - albeit one with a charming number of freckles to count.

It’s a rare occurrence that Aramis is the first to wake up between the two of them. Far more often Athos is up hours before both him and Porthos on the weekends - greets them with a fresh can of coffee when they eventually emerge from the bedroom. But he did have quite a lot to drink on the previous evening, certainly more than Aramis, so Aramis doesn’t wonder at his need to sleep it off.

He enjoys this time in bed with Athos; he’s always been fond of lazy mornings, and he wonders if Athos would object to a day spent on the couch in nothing but their pyjamas. Well … Athos’ pyjamas. Aramis would have to borrow a pair. That’s a great idea, actually - Athos has so many fancy pairs he rarely wears, most of them presents from his parents.

Athos chooses this moment to grunt and hold Aramis a little tighter - then he groans, apparently awake at last.

“Headache?” Aramis inquires in a worried voice, and Athos nods.

“A little, yes.” He takes a deep breath and brushes a kiss to Aramis’ shoulder. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Aramis whispers back. “Do you want me to get you a painkiller?”

“Not yet.” He rolls onto his back and squints up at the ceiling, presenting Aramis his profile to study.

“Is something wrong?” Aramis asks him, because Athos looks thoughtful rather than happy.

“No,” Athos says quietly. “I am merely wondering if I’d managed to be quite so honest about my feelings last night without the aid of alcohol.” He turns his head to look into Aramis eyes, smiling ever so faintly. “I sincerely hope I would have. The result was so very lovely.”

Aramis feels himself blushing, but he doesn’t evade Athos’ gaze. “I love you.”

What was a faint suggestion turns into a proper smile, warm and affectionate. “I love you, too.”

Happiness travels up Aramis’ spine, sends fizzy sparks of pleasure through his whole body. He shimmies a little closer to Athos, nuzzles his cheek and kisses the shell of his ear, delighted when Athos cranes his neck to offer him better access. This continues for a few glorious minutes, comfortable and lazy.

“I am feeling vindictive,” Athos says then, a hint of purpose in his voice. Aramis’ confusion lasts precisely as long as it takes Athos to roll to the side and take his phone off the bedside table. He watches Athos roll back into position, neck once more invitingly exposed. “Please continue.”

Aramis grins and does as he’s told so Athos can take a selfie of their early morning bliss and send it to Porthos.

The reply is imminent. _You two are mean,_ he writes. _Can’t wait to get home to you and kiss you senseless._

Aramis sighs, reading the message, and Athos strokes his hair, kisses his cheek. “I would like to take a shower now.”

“Okay,” Aramis pouts. “But only if you change back into your pjs afterwards and spend all day cuddling on the couch with me.”

“Greedy,” Athos comments. “I like that.” He gives Aramis another kiss and releases him from his arms, sits up in bed, winces. “Upon closer consideration I should probably take that painkiller first.”

So they migrate to the kitchen, where Athos finds his medication and Aramis feeds their starving kittens, shivering in the morning coldness of the apartment. He asks Athos for one of his pyjamas, and then spends a good ten minutes in front of Athos’ wardrobe to pick out matching pairs upon being granted permission.

Once he’s dressed in something wine-red and shiny with an elaborate floral pattern he returns to the kitchen to prepare a can of coffee for Athos (he’s allowed to do that now, Athos taught him how), _then_ he delivers the pyjamas he’s picked out for Athos to the bathroom. They’re black with golden accents - Aramis has no idea why he’s never seen Athos wear them.

He opens the bathroom door, and Athos turns in the shower, smiles when he sees Aramis enter - shakes his head when he recognizes what Aramis has brought him, rolls his eyes.

“They’re beautiful,” Aramis insists, and Athos laughs and proceeds to wash his hair.

“Whatever you say, Aramis.”

Aramis can’t help to ogle him a little - all that pale skin and the vulnerable sight that is Athos’ soft cock. He only hopes that he’ll be able to control himself once he’s on the couch with Athos. Because he’s never been allowed to give Athos that blowjob he so desperately yearns for - didn’t allow himself to even think about it.

Now that he _has_ thought about it he won’t be able to think about anything else for at least three hours. Damn it.


	5. Chapter 5

Aramis is not the best of actors. He’s aware of that. Which is why he’s somewhat tense all through brunch, which consists of a lavish feast laid out on the couch table, once more photographed and sent to Porthos by Athos. Athos’ reward is a picture of Porthos working his way through an apple-honey pie. Samara’s mother truly spoils him rotten - a fact Aramis approves of whole-heartedly. Usually Porthos is the one spoiling other people, it’s really nice to see him being adopted into his sister’s family.

Athos huffs when he sees the picture and drops his phone on the couch, huddles a little deeper into their shared blanket. Aramis holds his breath, and Athos glances at his profile, annoyingly perceptive. “Is there something on your mind?”

He’s sitting very close to Aramis, thigh against thigh, and Aramis has done his damned best to keep his hands above the blanket at all times. Accidental cock-touching would be just like him. God, just _thinking_ about it makes him want to die of shame.

He clears his throat. “No, I’m good - want to watch a movie?”

There’s a pause, during which Aramis panics a little, but then Athos nods and rewards him with a little smile. “Certainly. Do you have anything particular in mind?”

Aramis does not, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t make a bee-line for their DVD shelf and put on Lake Placid. Maybe not everyone’s idea of a lazy Saturday morning movie, but it works for him. He pops it into the player and returns to the couch, slips back under the blanket with a little sigh.

“Good choice,” Athos comments, turns on the TV and takes Aramis’ hand after sliding up right next to him once more. “Now tell me what’s bothering you.”

A ludicrous sense of betrayal is quickly relieved by inevitability. Aramis hangs his head. “It’s embarrassing.”

Athos, utterly unimpressed, gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “For me, or for you?”

“Both of us?” Aramis gnaws on his lip. “I really don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Athos promises him solemnly. “Now out with it.”

Aramis sighs and prepares himself for a mental jump off a cliff, hangs his head again and closes his eyes. “I want to blow you.”

His reward is silence. He doesn’t dare look at Athos - opens his eyes to stare down at his blanket-covered knees instead.

“Is that all?” Athos asks eventually - voice tentative and unsure, as if he’s bracing himself for something rather more sordid.

Aramis’ head snaps up and around. “Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Yes, that’s all!”

Athos smiles at him, making something in Aramis’ brain go blip. “That’s neither embarrassing, nor does it make me uncomfortable, Aramis. I am aware of your physical needs.”

“Yes, but this is _different_ ,” Aramis blurts out, apparently rendered insane by Athos’ easy acceptance. “Watching Porthos blow you looked so _nice_.” He turns his head away from Athos, trying to hide the pout pulling at his mouth. “I’m jealous.”

Athos chuckles. He holds Aramis’ hand a little tighter and lifts it to his lips, brushes a kiss to his knuckles. “Getting to suck me off isn’t that much of a privilege, don’t you think? The other way around - now that would make more sense.”

Aramis promptly pouts a little more. “Of course it makes sense! You wouldn’t have _prepared_ for sucking Porthos off if it didn’t make sense.” He pulls his feet up onto the couch and hugs his knees to his chest. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Yes, you should,” Athos insists. “You are right. Pleasuring Porthos was an enjoyable experience. I should allow you to experience the same with me.”

Aramis’ eyes widen. “Really?”

Athos possesses the gall to shrug. “You’ve never made me feel uncomfortable as of yet. We might as well give it a try.”

From anyone else the words would signify disinterest, possibly even apathy. From Athos they’re just as much a declaration of love as the one Aramis received upon waking up this morning. He goes warm all over.  


Athos appears to be aware, puts his arm around his shoulders and pulls him in, presses a kiss to Aramis’ right temple. “You do not have to be afraid to talk about these things with me. I know that I am far from sexually prolific, but my mouth works perfectly fine.” Aramis feels him smile against his skin. “Pun not intended.”  


Aramis shivers and closes his eyes, leans into Athos and goes boneless. “I just didn’t want to push.”

“I know,” Athos murmurs, “and I am grateful for that. I’m very lucky to have you.” He goes a little tense, and then he sighs, turns to face Aramis and pulls him in for a proper hug. “It is such a relief that you are aware of my limits and never try to push me beyond them. You cannot imagine how safe that makes me feel.”

Aramis does know, actually. Because he feels the same with Athos and Porthos, has felt it right from the very beginning. They’re his haven, his sanctuary. He can be himself with them without fear of being judged, or pressured, or abandoned.

“Do you want to do it right now?” Athos asks him, voice soft, almost timid. He cards his fingers through Aramis’ hair and brushes it out of his eyes, offers him a smile.

Aramis’ first impulse is to say yes, to take what Athos is offering before it vanishes into thin air … then he remembers that it won’t. The offer will still stand tomorrow, or next week - next month even. They have time. So Aramis shakes his head, gently pushes Athos onto his back so he can lie on top. “No,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against Athos’ chest. “Let’s stay like this - this is nice.”

He feels Athos hold his breath, and then let it go, and tries to focus on the movie playing on the screen. He lies very still, hyper-aware of Athos’ warmth underneath him, of the rhythmic beating of both their hearts.

Minutes pass without either of them moving, and then Athos puts his hands to Aramis’ cheeks and tilts his face up, whispers his name. “Aramis.”

Aramis looks into his eyes, vulnerable and open, and Athos pulls him up and into a kiss. He licks over the seam of Aramis’ lips and inside once they part, teases a moan out of Aramis. Kissing Athos like this is always so intense, makes Aramis go warm and shivery, sends tendrils of arousal out into his blood. Athos’ hands glide from his cheeks and over his neck, stroke down Aramis’ back. There’s intent behind the touch, and Aramis moans a little louder than before, spreads his legs. “Athos, I really … we really don’t have to do it now.”  


“I know,” Athos murmurs, his breath hot against Aramis’ ear. “Just let me touch you, please.”  



	6. Chapter 6

Aramis has been called many things over the years. Easy. Single-minded. Slut.

It made him feel broken and wrong, as if that part of him - the part that liked to be touched and enjoyed pleasuring others - was nothing but a cause for shame, something that ought to be hidden.

“Your skin is so soft,” Athos whispers into his ear, his hands gliding over Aramis’ back, underneath the pyjama top, and Aramis whimpers a moan, is completely overwhelmed by Athos’ gentleness and the confidence of his touch. “I have longed to touch you like this.”

The words give Aramis goosebumps just as much as Athos’ hands do, and he lifts his face, wants, no, _needs_ to be kissed. Given his own relationship with sex, Athos should be one of Aramis’ condemners, should despise or at least scoff at him for craving physical pleasure as much as he does.

Instead Athos smiles and grants Aramis’ silent plea, spreads his legs under him and brings their groins a little closer together. His hands keep stroking over Aramis’ back, up and down, again and again - and each time they go down they brush a little bit lower, make Aramis bite his lips and squeeze his eyes shut, bring him closer and closer to shaking his ass in invitation.

Athos keeps teasing him, licks into his mouth and makes Aramis chase his tongue, kisses him breathless. By the time he starts to move his hips Aramis is too far gone to hold back; he moans again and counters Athos’ movements, slowly and deliberately, his cock delighted by the sudden friction.

“Are you feeling good?” Athos whispers into his ear, and Aramis nods, kisses him again, sloppy and stupid with affection.

And then Athos’ hands finally find his ass - grab it and guide his movements, and Aramis is so turned on that he’d do anything Athos asked of him. His cock feels heavy between his legs, the tip leaking profusely, and when Athos readjusts his grip and spreads his cheeks Aramis very nearly comes.

“I love how sensitive you are,” Athos tells him, awe tinting the words. “You’re so beautiful like this.” His voice is very soft. He doesn’t drawl - doesn’t sound like Porthos would either, arousal and satisfaction honeying the words. He’s just … telling Aramis how it is while he himself remains almost unshaken. Almost.

There’s a little hitch in Athos’ voice, all but undetectable, but Aramis hears it and shivers, presses his mouth back to Athos’. He loves it when Athos kisses him back right away. Athos is such a _good_ kisser, makes Aramis’ toes curl with pleasure, knows precisely what he’s doing.

Aramis whimpers when Athos starts to knead his ass and then suddenly presses a probing finger to his entrance - comes with a groan of surprise.

He feels Athos twitch beneath him - evidently just as surprised as Aramis - and then he goes limp, kisses Aramis a little softer than before while Aramis pants into his mouth and tries to regain his bearing. Eventually Aramis just flops down in a starfished manner and sighs against Athos’ neck, makes him chuckle. “I did not expect such a violent reaction.”

“Well, you should have,” Aramis slurs, nuzzling his warm skin. “I’m very sensitive.”

“Obviously,” Athos agrees in a fond voice, pulling Aramis’ pants back up and over his ass. “We better find you a clean pair of pyjamas, yes?”

Aramis sighs again, happy and content, and shimmies his hips. “Sorry for getting this one all messy.” He notices the warm pressure against his thigh and stills, blinks his eyes open. “Athos?”

“Your enthusiasm is really rather enticing,” Athos tells him, not quite as composed as before.

Aramis has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite his tongue to contain his reaction, his whole body lighting up again, over-sensitive and receptive. It’s almost enough to get his lower half going again as well - knowing that he did this, that Athos is comfortable enough with him to be physically aroused.

“It feels good,” Athos tells him, moving his hips ever so slightly. “You feel good.”

The words make Aramis’ mouth pull into a smile, broad and proud, and something inside him abandons all fear of censure, wants nothing but to make Athos feel even better. “I’ll do anything.”

“Yes?” Athos asks, putting his hand under Aramis’ chin to make him look into his eyes. He’s smiling, the suggestion of a tease lurking in the corners of his mouth, and Aramis nods, and smiles back.

“Yes. Anything.”

“You are sweet,” Athos tells him, punctuates the praise with kisses, “and generous; and absolutely irresistible.”

The afterglow of his climax makes Aramis feel almost weightless - warm and comfortable and safe in Athos’ arms, and he finds it very difficult to keep his hips still instead of rubbing himself all over Athos just to feel the proof of his arousal again. But he does keep still, very still even - until Athos delivers a playful slap to his butt. “It won’t fall off if you move, you know.”

The sudden attack makes Aramis first squeal and then giggle … and there it is again, the sensation of Athos’ hard cock brushing up against his thigh. Maybe it shouldn’t make Aramis’ mouth water, he doesn’t know anymore. All he knows that Athos won’t condemn him for it, won’t look at him with disdain, or touch him any different.

“Will you let me … now?” he asks, hopefulness radiating off him like sunlight.

“I don’t know,” Athos murmurs in reply, smirks ever so faintly when Aramis looks up and into his eyes. “Will you be able to handle so much excitement so soon after your climax?”

He sounds at once self-depreciating and wonderfully teasing, and Aramis responds like a puppy being offered a game of fetch, the very definition of happy eagerness. “Yes - yes I will!”

Athos smiles and cups his cheek, rubs his thumb over Aramis’ regrown beard. “How could I ever say no to you?”

There’s so much love in his voice. Aramis turns his head and kisses his palm, eyes closed, utterly trusting, soaking in the warmth of the moment. It shouldn’t be possible to be this happy. But he is. And the permission to blow Athos has actually very little to do with it.


End file.
